


For Hire

by Miss_Snazzy



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: But he usually means well, Canon Divergence - Teen Wolf Season 5a, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Desperate Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Manipulative Theo, Minor Theo Raeken/Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Protective Wade, Scott McCall is a Bad Friend, Stiles Needs a Hug, Stiles has a creative way of saying no, Theo has a serious crush on dark!Stiles, Theo wants Stiles in his Pack, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:26:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy
Summary: Stiles and Scott have their fallout, the Sheriff ends up in the hospital, and Theo thinks he's won.Theo wants Stiles in his Pack. Stiles has a creative way of saying no.Alternatively: The one in which a desperate Stiles embraces one of his wilder ideas and hires Deadpool.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles stares at the screen of his cellphone, gnawing on his right thumb.  The light clicks off from inactivity and he swipes it awake again.  Rinse and repeat for several minutes.

A car alarm shrieks in the distance and Stiles jerks his head up, searching the street.  The grocery store behind him remains dark and the wide parking lot empty apart from his dad’s car.  He listens to the persistent ding of its ajar door against the buzzing of the streetlamp above.  With concrete holding the forest back and pools of orange light killing the shadows, Stiles takes a deep breath and releases his thumb. 

His sneakers squeak as he steps up to the payphone.  The plastic sticks to his right hand when he picks the phone off the cradle, but at least there’s a dial tone.  He keeps the earpiece held just beside his ear and pushes a handful of quarters into the coin slot.  Another swipe of the cellphone screen in his left hand brings the number back up.  He tries to calculate how long he has spent staring at it in the last handful of hours.  The screen darkens.

Stiles dials the number from memory.

The phone groans out ring after ring and Stiles clenches his fist, gaze darting around him.  Concrete and streetlight aside, new shadows seem to yawn between the branches of the forest in the distance.  His last ditch attempt at a solution might actually end up with him in a ditch.

Stiles straightens when the ringing stops.  He checks the cord leading from the phone in his hand, but finds the line intact.

“Hi…” Stiles wets his lips.  “I uh, found this number online.”  He holds his breath and listens.  Still no dial tone.  “Hello?”

Stiles surveys the empty parking lot again, his gaze flicking to his dad’s car.  He rubs his face against his arm and exhales, heavy.

“Look, I know this is probably a scam and I’m gonna end up on some kind of list, but I don’t really have many options right now, so here goes.”  Stiles sucks in another breath.  “Someone is after me.  A, uh, physically enhanced someone.  They want me to join their-their gang of psychopaths and they’re not very big on consent.  One of them already hurt my dad,” he chokes.  “I can’t go to the cops.  It’ll just add to the body count.  I don’t…”  His next breath shakes.  “My dad is all I have.  I can’t...I can’t lose him.”

Stiles holds his breath and stares down at the worn out numbers on the keypad.  He just needs a hint.  Just one.  Just to know that someone is listening. 

His dad’s car door dings on behind him.  His lungs burn.  Still no dial tone.  No breath.

Stiles exhales his own, shaky.

Maybe someone cut the line further down?

Stiles hisses out a laugh and drags his arm across his face.  His sleeve sticks to his skin when he drops his arm.

“Right,” Stiles murmurs into the phone, his shoulders sagging.  “Okay.”

The muted click when Stiles returns the phone to its receiver marks the end of his options.

Stiles drags his feet back to his dad’s car.  The leather creaks when he drops himself into the driver’s seat sideways, half in, half out.  He props his elbows on his thighs and counts his fingers between his knees.  The shadows creep closer out of the corner of his eye even as the results remain the same.

Ten. 

Stiles hisses out another laugh at the surge of regret.  He wonders when demonic hallucinations became the preferable outcome.

Probably when he found his dad sprawled out on the cold concrete, left to choke on his own blood.

A harsh noise overtakes the ding of the car door and Stiles jumps, searching the parking lot and the forest beyond.

What now?  A Black Canary wannabe Chimera?

The noise reconciles into a familiar ring and his gaze anchors on the payphone.  With the third ring, Stiles flings himself forward, stumbling to press the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Stiles croaks, wincing at the hard smack of his elbow against the metal covering.

“Hello,” a high masculine voice sing-songs, “you’ve reached the office of DPDC—that’s Dead Pool’s Deadening Company, where we strive to unalive,” the voice giggles, “the people who’ve really gotten on your bad side.  And I mean really,” the voice insists, dropping the animated tone in favor of something deep and dark, “they must’ve done something shit awful to warrant calling your Unfriendly Neighborhood Pool Guy.™”

Stiles gapes.  He would count his fingers again if he could afford to remove the phone from his ear. 

A large part of him fears the line might go dead again if he did.

“I...I just called,” Stiles rushes, shuffling closer to the receiver.  “No one…”

“Faulty connection.  Don’t worry, my secretary Mrs. White told me the jist.  What—because Colonel Yellow isn’t a thing, okay?”

“What?”

“Not you—anyway, Pool’s got the deets, so let’s get on with the meets.  Or meats, if you wanna go all Hannibal on them fuckers who done cut up your dad.  I can slice ‘em and dice ‘em, or I can shove some stovetop up their asses and we can have ourselves an olde fashion Thanks For Nothing dinner.”

Stiles chokes on his next breath, whether out of relief or from the image, even he couldn’t say.

“So you’ll do it?”  Stiles confirms, trying to ignore the deeper press of shadows on pavement.  Out of time.  “You’ll take the job?”

“Still got a few details to work out,” the voice, Deadpool, points out, tone level, “but, yeah.  I’ll take it.  First, I’m gonna need a location.”

Stiles licks his lips, the ding of the ajar door sharp in the wake of his silence.

“Beacon Hills.  California.”

Deadpool hums.

“It’s your lucky day,” he proclaims, cheerful.  “The DP happens to be West coast adjacent at the moment.  I can be there within a day.”

A day.

Stiles stares at the dark trees beyond his bright circle of pavement.  A day is more than he could’ve hoped for, really.

He wonders if it’s also more than he has.  More than his dad has.

Stiles shakes the thought away.  No point dwelling on it now.  He can last a day.

He has to.

“Got a name, kid?” Deadpool asks and Stiles blinks back into the moment.

“Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Deadpool repeats, and somehow, Stiles finds the way he says it calming.  “Hold tight.”

The line clicks and Stiles listens to the dial tone ding ding ding before shoving the phone back at its receiver to stare at his hands.

Ten.  Still ten.

Stiles exhales a shaky breath that’s half laugh and throws himself into his dad’s car.  The wheels don’t screech and everything remains quiet in a way his jeep never is when he leaves his bright circle of light, cutting through the shadowed roads.  He watches that cluster of trees grow distant in the rearview mirror and wonders how much longer his makeshift barrier could’ve held, how much further he could’ve pushed.

 _A mercenary_ , Stiles thinks, near giddy in his disbelief, _I’ve hired a mercenary_.

And his mind anchors on that thought, plans spinning outward to chase away some of the helplessness that settled in his gut when Scott had backed away in disbelief.

Theo might’ve taken Scott, but he won’t take his dad. 

Not while Stiles can still _do_ something.

Even if that means bringing another Deadpool to Beacon Hills.  At least this one won't end with another gun in his face.

Hopefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff wasn't poisoned by the Chimera, just injured enough to be knocked out of play. Scott is alive, but he's taking a bit longer to recuperate here, so no sneaky eavesdropping.

Stiles sits on the stairs and waits, thumb poised over his cellphone screen.  Sunlight cuts into the entryway through the open door.  A text also sits and waits, unsent.

A familiar shadow swallows the light and Stiles glances up the baggy jeans and t-shirt to meet Theo's stare.  Stiles's gaze flicks to the line of mountain ash between them and Theo follows, lips curling.

Stiles watches Theo step over that line of mountain ash as easy as anything and swallows a sigh, pressing send before tucking his phone away.

“Guess we’re all telling the truth now,” Theo narrates as if he’s above it all, and maybe he is, considering how well he played everyone.

Stiles hates him.

“You killed my best friend.”

And he did.  Maybe not in the literal sense, but in every other way that mattered.

“Let’s be honest, Stiles,” Theo coaxes, like he hasn’t spent weeks manipulating them with half truths.  “Was he still really your best friend?”

And Stiles swallows at that, uncertain.  A younger, rebellious part of him wants to cling to that title with cracked fingernails, the same way he had clung to the idea of Mom.

The difference, Stiles finds, lies in consent.  Claudia couldn’t help the way areas of her brain began to shrink, twisting logic and love until all the whispered fears in her mind fell across him like a shroud, giving her a target for her pain and grief.

Theo spun tales for Scott, preying on his fears too, but Scott didn’t have to believe him. 

He chose to.

“You were gonna let my father die?” Stiles asks instead, voice low.

Theo looks down at him as if he can see right through.  Maybe he can.

“If I wanted him to die, I wouldn’t have told you where you could find him,” Theo reminds him, reasonable.  “I know how important he is to you.”

“Yeah?”  Stiles huffs out a dark laugh.  “Then you should know better than to hurt my dad,” he grinds out, “and leave him to choke on his own blood.”

“I didn’t touch your dad.”  Theo stares into Stiles’s eyes, smug lips gone flat and serious.  “But I know the Chimera that did.  We’ll find him.”

“There’s no we,” Stiles hisses, clenching his jaw against the questions that want to follow.

Theo lies.  Stiles knows this.  Playing along will only make it easier for him to worm his way in.

“I’m not the bad guy, Stiles.”  Theo sighs.  “I’m a realist.  I’m a survivor—just like you.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“Aren’t you?”  Theo smiles.  “Admit it.  Even before the Nogitsune, you had your own ruthless streak a mile wide.”

“You might’ve fooled Scott with that story about being childhood friends, but we both know you aren’t the kid we knew.”  Stiles sneers, “You don’t know anything.”

Theo laughs.

“Don’t I?”  Theo challenges, lips pulling into a smug curl.  “I know you were able to draw in a Nogitsune.”

“It wanted out.  I just happened to be the one stupid enough to leave a door open.”  Stiles shrugs, keeping his hands at his side and his gaze level.

“C’mon, Stiles.  Do you really think the Nogitsune possessed you because you were, what, easy?”

Stiles frowns.

“It chose you because you fit.”  Theo grins, teeth sharp, if still human.  “You complemented each other.  Do you know how rare that is?  How special?”

“Of course you'd be impressed by something like that, you manipulative sociopath.”

“You’d be impressed too if you knew the things that I know.”

“Yeah, well, what do you know?” Stiles challenges.

“I know that it takes someone with extraordinary willpower to stand up against a Void.” 

Stiles scoffs.

“You need to get your facts checked.  I didn’t stand up against anything.  The Nogitsune took control of my body and upchucked me onto the McCall’s floor.”

“And I know what Lydia saw in your head,” Theo counters.  “The Nogitsune might’ve had your body, but you were sitting on the other side of that game board, meeting move for move.  I saw it in her memories.”

“Right after you drove her out of her mind,” Stiles reminds him. 

“Collateral damage,” Theo explains with an amused curl, tilting his head.

Stiles shakes his own, gritting his teeth.

“You should know,” Stiles offers in a mild tone, “that the last person who used Lydia like that...I set them on fire.”

“And there it is.”  Theo smiles, somehow both smug and fond.  Stiles wants to punch him.  “That ruthless streak you want to pretend isn’t there because Scott wouldn’t understand.  Couldn’t understand that kind of loyalty.”  Theo’s lips tug down.  “Not the True Alpha,” he sneers.  “All he cared about were his shallow ideals of right and wrong.”

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself,” Stiles sneers back.  “What do you know about loyalty?”

Theo takes a step closer.  Stiles clenches his jaw and refuses to mirror one back.

“I know that real loyalty is being willing to do whatever it takes to protect the people you care about.  You would’ve done anything for Scott,” Theo points out, and the words ring in Stiles’s ears, jealous and hungry and with too much truth.  “And he wouldn’t even take the time to listen when he found out about Donovan.  You did what you had to in order to survive and he treated you like a monster.”

“Because you lied.”  Stiles clenches his fists, his nails biting into his palms.  “Whatever you told him—we both know it wasn’t the whole story.”

The words finally slip out, the theory that he couldn't bear to acknowledge before, and it burns, this kind of hope.

“I tested him.  For you.” The words sit heavy and final between them.  Theo stares into his eyes, sharp and serious.  “So that you could finally see the truth that your loyalty to him made you too blind to see.”

Stiles feels his heart pound.

“I—”

“You,” Theo returns, taking another step closer.  Stiles staggers back.  “You were his best friend.  It shouldn’t have mattered what I said,” Theo points out, so gentle and reasonable.  And hearing those thoughts spoken aloud burns much worse than the hope had, which seems to shrivel now inside his chest.  “He should’ve trusted you.”

And Stiles knows that isn’t fair, that Scott had already made that mistake once when the Nogitsune wore his face, but he can’t help the despair that fills him, remembering how he yelled at Scott for trusting everyone, even sketchy people like Theo, and, finally, Scott’s horrified step back when he lost that trust himself.

“He…”  Stiles swallows.  “He had his reasons not to.”

Theo’s lips crook, sympathetic.

“He always did, didn’t he?” Theo murmurs and Stiles’s gaze flits to the uncharacteristic twist of his hands in front of his abdomen.  “I bet he always had a reason for overlooking you.”

Theo sounds almost sad.  Stiles watches the slow rise of his right hand between them.

“A good alpha appreciates what they have,” Theo reveals, his tone gentle.  “They listen.  And they trust the ones who have stuck by them.”  His hand hovers between them, close enough that Stiles can almost feel it against his cheek.  “A good alpha—no, a good friend—would've believed you, the way Scott didn’t.”

Stiles flinches.

“If you were one of mine, I would’ve trusted you.”  The words flow, low and earnest.  “I definitely would’ve trusted you over a stranger.  And I wouldn’t have sidelined you for a newbie Beta.”

Stiles clenches his jaw and glares.

Theo drops his hand.

“I’m going to find the Chimera that hurt your dad.  He won’t get away with what he did,” Theo promises again.  “And neither will Liam.”

Stiles frowns.

“What are you talking about?”

Theo gives him a look.

“He killed Scott.”

“That was you.”

“C’mon, Stiles.”  Theo sighs.  He flashes his other set of eyes and they burn with their usual yellowed light.  “If I’d killed him, these would be red right now,” he reminds him.

Stiles barks a laugh into his face.

“Like you didn’t set all that up.  Final blow, or not.”

Whatever lie Theo had prepared for that accusation fades in his throat when Stiles closes the distance between them.

“What exactly are you trying to do, here?” Stiles challenges, prodding him in the chest.  “Kill Liam and become the new Alpha?” He barks out another laugh, eyebrows raised.  “You think being an Alpha will make a difference?”

Theo frowns, but remains still.

_Scott's alive, you idiot._

“You had to trick and manipulate someone else into killing Scott because you were too much of a coward to take him on yourself,” Stiles sneers.  “You could become an Alpha twice over, but you’d still be weak.”

In his next breath, Theo clenches his hands into Stiles’s shirt and Stiles feels his spine vibrate with the force of his slam against the wall.  Their breaths heave—one out, one in—between them. 

Stiles watches Theo’s furious expression smooth out in favor of his customary amusement.

“I don’t need an Alpha’s strength to kill you,” Theo remarks, pressing a set of claws to Stiles’s neck.

Stiles strains his neck back, but Theo only presses closer.  Each claw rests against his neck with a shallow, stinging pressure.

“Wouldn’t take an Alpha to kill your dad, either.”

Stiles jerks, hissing both in anger and pain.

“You even think of touching my dad—”

“That wasn’t a threat,” Theo consoles, tone longsuffering.  Stiles watches Theo’s gaze slip to his neck.  “Just an observation.  With your dad in the hospital, it wouldn’t take much.  Even a human could do it.”

Stiles glares.

“What’s your point?”

“My point,” Theo stresses, meeting his gaze, “is that you should be more worried about the Chimera that is after your dad.”

Stiles sags against the wall.  His phone remains silent.

“So, what?” Stiles murmurs, unable to suppress the defeat in his voice.  “You’re gonna use my dad as leverage to get me to join you?”

“Not leverage," Theo huffs.  “A promise.  You’ll join my Pack, and you’ll get your dad back.”

Theo smiles.  Stiles still really, really wants to punch him.

“And if I still say no?” Stiles wonders.

Theo's smile slips, gaze growing distant, and he turns his head into a right hook.  Stiles flinches back into the wall, watching Theo crumple into a sprawl across the stairs.

 “Whoa, someone needs a manicure,” a masculine voice chirps.

Stiles gapes at the masked stranger standing between Theo and himself and wonders how hard he hit his head against the wall, if he blacked out on the stairs.

The masked stranger, wearing an actual red and black leather bodysuit, turns to Stiles.

“Thanks for the address, Sweet Pea.  Had a hell of a time tryin’ to find you without it.  I thought it’d be a no brainer—heh—but someone,” the stranger singsongs, “gave a fake name.”

The stranger—Deadpool, Stiles realizes—plants his fists on either of his hips and, though Stiles can’t see beyond the white eyes of his mask, he just knows his gaze radiates disapproval.

“Sorry,” Stiles sputters, eyes wide.  “It wasn’t a fake," he defends, "just, no one actually uses my legal name.”

“And that’s great when you’re playing with Sylvester over there," Deadpool comments, jerking a thumb back at Theo, "but mercs, even amazing ones like me,” he plants his hand against his chest, “need just a little more to go on.”

Stiles gapes.

“I—you hung up on me!” he squawks.

“No…. Did we?”  Deadpool tilts his head.  “Oh snap, we did!  My bad.”

Stiles squints at him in disbelief.

“Who the hell are you?” Theo spits as he rises beyond Deadpool’s shoulder, a smear of blood on the side of his mouth.

Deadpool twirls on one heel to face him, placing Stiles at his back.

“I’m the pizza delivery guy, here to deliver your pizza.”  Deadpool aims a gun between Theo’s eyes.  “Tell your boss that this kid and his dad are off limits,” he instructs, voice low.  “Or he’ll have my manager to deal with and trust me—things will get a lot worse than a few missing olives.”

Theo narrows his eyes, gaze darting around Deadpool’s form.  Noting weapons?  Even from behind, Stiles can see a pair of literal katanas strapped to the guy’s back.

“You’re a, what, hired gun?” Theo wonders in disbelief.

“If the arsenal fits,” Deadpool replies, grin audible in his voice.

Theo peers around Deadpool’s bulk to meet Stiles’s gaze.

“See, this is what I’m talking about!”  Theo laughs in delight.  “You’re always thinking outside the box.”

Stiles glares and opens his mouth—

“Less talky, more walky,” Deadpool insists, gesturing toward the doorway with his gun.

Stiles snaps his mouth shut. 

Theo stares at the barrel for a moment, considering.  With all the cat jokes, Stiles doubts this guy had the foreknowledge to pack wolfsbane.

_But Theo doesn't know that._

“We’ll finish this later, Stiles,” Theo calls, leaning around Deadpool with obvious amusement.

"No, we won't," Stiles sneers.

“Shoo pussycat.”  Deadpool flaps both hands, gun included, at Theo.  “No Tweety for you.”

Theo shakes his head but complies, striding back over the threshold and into the light.  He doesn't look back. 

The mountain ash remains undisturbed.

"Gotta watch out for those strays," Deadpool advises in a bright tone.  "An open door might as well be an invitation."

Stiles watches Deadpool hip-check the door closed and reflects on his choices.  Deadpool turns to face him, tucking his gun into one of the many holsters strapped to his body.  His red and black leather clad body.  Complete with a mask.  And katanas.

“You have a manager?” Stiles asks, instead of the hundred other more pressing questions shooting spitfire through his mind.

“Nah, just me and the two guys bullshittin' behind the curtain.”  Deadpool shrugs.  He stretches his right arm until it pops and sighs in relief.  "So..."  He claps his hands together.  "Where's that pizza?"

"What?"

Deadpool tilts his head and stares at Stiles.  Stiles stares back.

"Oh, right," Deadpool murmurs.

Stiles opens his mouth, but Deadpool is already turning and Stiles gapes, watching the shift of muscles in his back as he strides into the kitchen.  With a quick push off the wall, Stiles rushes to follow.

"Hold up!  Shouldn't we...?"  Stiles jerks a thumb back to the entryway.  "I mean, I haven't paid you yet," he reminds him.

Deadpool hums, peering into a few cupboards.

"Don't worry, we'll get that squared away.  The DP doesn't work for free."  Deadpool aims a look over his shoulder, the white eyes of his mask somehow narrowed.  "But," his tone brightens, "we'll get into all that later."  He abandons the cabinets in favor of the fridge.  "Right now, I'd rather find my way into a sandwich.  Consider it your first installment," he offers, digging through the vegetable crisper.  "You got any pickles?"

Stiles stares, once again noting the pull of leather across Deadpool's back, the various weapons strapped all over his body, and the way he wiggles as he bends over, shopping in Stiles's fridge for sandwich ingredients.

Stiles counts his fingers.  Still ten.  Huh.

"Behind the salsa.  Second shelf," Stiles murmurs, collapsing into a chair at the table.

"Oooh, salsa," Deadpool hums, grabbing both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People with bruises have a knack for poking them.

“So…” Deadpool drawls, sucking mustard off of his gloved fingers, “who’d you off?”

Stiles jerks, thoughts on Deadpool’s dirty gloves and the craters smeared around his mouth gone in favor of the heavy clang of metal and the distinct squelch of a punctured torso.

“What?” Stiles croaks, wide-eyed.

Deadpool smacks his lips and shoves his plate across the table with a dramatic flair more befitting a child.  When Stiles lifts his gaze from the sauce-splattered porcelain, he finds Deadpool’s marred skin hidden behind his mask once more.

“That guy was all up on your dick,” Deadpool points out, propping his chin on his fist.  “You must’ve done something naw-tee to get him all hot and bothered.  So!”  Stiles watches him wiggle in his seat, excitement palpable.  “Who was it?”

Stiles rubs at the back of his shoulder, head heavy under the weight of those vacant white eyes.

“Don't like to kiss and tell?”  Deadpool hums, leaning back in his chair.  “I can respect that.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Stiles insists, meeting his gaze even as the lie adds its own weight.

Hard to imagine a mercenary caring too much about another dead body, but after that conversation with Scott…

Stiles sighs.

“Whoo boy, yes he is,” Deadpool exhales, the white eyes of his mask somehow lowering in an almost half-lidded stare.

_What the hell is that thing made of?_

“What?”

“You gonna take care of that?” Deadpool asks, tapping his neck.

Stiles mirrors the move and hisses at the slight sting.  He yanks his cellphone out of his pocket and flips to the camera’s selfie mode, grimacing at the puncture wounds Theo’s claws left behind.

Is supernatural rabies a thing?  Does he need a shot? Because he has enough problems without contracting Theo’s Misery™ levels of crazy.

Stiles jumps at the loud scrape of Deadpool’s chair shoving back, watching him bounce to his feet.

“That hit the spot,” Deadpool announces, rubbing his hands together.  “My compliments to the chef.”

Stiles eyes the smear of mustard, salsa, and other questionable choices Deadpool left in his wake.

“You made it.”

“Then compliments to me,” Deadpool proclaims, pulling his gun out of its holster.  “Now, we better fellate this popsicle stand before your feline friend tries to make a move.”

Stiles watches Deadpool check the clip with a frown.

Theo likes to think of himself as a grand puppeteer, Stiles knows.  Deadpool’s presence seemed to shock the hell out of him, so the idea of him making another move so soon with a new player on the board sounded unlikely.

Besides which, Theo wants Stiles on his side and seems determined to get it.  He should know better than to hurt his dad.

One of Theo’s Chimera cronies, however…

Stiles grabs the bat leaning against the kitchen wall, testing the grip.  He can feel Deadpool’s questioning stare.

“Let’s go,” Stiles calls over his shoulder, leading the way.

…

Stiles throws his arm out in classic soccer mom style as he jerks Roscoe to a stop.  Deadpool peers down at said arm pressed to his chest before turning that wide, white stare on him.  The guy walking in the middle of the street glares at them, mouth twisted with a slew of curses as he stalks away.  Stiles flips him off and pulls into a parking spot.  Deadpool reaches for the door handle, still eying his arm.

“Wait,” Stiles insists, though he does drop his arm, “how’re you getting in?”

“Through this revolutionary thing called a door,” Deadpool deadpans.

Stiles watches the steady bustle of patients and nursing staff alike through the sliding glass doors ahead.  He grimaces.

“That isn't going to work,” Stiles murmurs, trying to recall Mrs. McCall’s latest work schedule.  “We need to find another way to sneak you in.”

“It’s a hospital, kid.” 

Stiles can just hear the eye roll. 

“Nurses get enough light bulbs up the butt that this little number,” Deadpool gestures down his leather clad body, “isn’t gonna be enough to make them bat an eye.”

Stiles drags a hand down his face.

“You’re gonna get a bat to the face if you walk in there like that.  You look like a serial killer.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.” 

“Looked like a serial killer or broke into a hospital?”

“First,” Deadpool holds up one gloved finger right in Stiles’s face, “its visiting hours.  Not a B&E in some dick’s mansion.  Second and most important,” Stiles glares at the additional finger an inch from his nose, “the DP is all about the instant gratification.  Ain’t gonna make my life any harder than it already is without a good reason, so,” Deadpool claps his hands together and aims his fingers at Stiles, “what’s the deal?”

“There’s no deal.  Just common sense,” Stiles sneers.  “You don’t think someone’s gonna take one look at the katanas on your back and call 911?”

“Pbbt.”  Deadpool flaps a hand at him.  “No sweat.  Oh, unless you’re worried they’re gonna think I’m your dominatrix?”

Stiles glares.  Mask or no, he knows what a smirk sounds like.

“You know, that might not be a bad cover.”  Deadpool cups his chin.  “If I can get my hands on a nice collar and chain—actually, I might have one in one of these pockets,” he starts rifling through his utility belt, “because like the boy scouts always say, better to be prepared—”

“The last time I strolled through here with a guy in full combat gear,” Stiles grits out, stomach roiling, “bodies followed.” 

Deadpool stops rummaging in his pockets to tilt his head at him. 

“So unless you wanna lose the costume—”

“Now, that’s a deal-breaker, kid.”

“Then you need to find a new way in,” Stiles says, jaw clenched.  He slits his eyes at Deadpool.  “Don’t forget I’m paying you.”  _Eventually._

Deadpool watches him.  His mask looks like any other—stiff and immobile.  Stiles wonders if he had imagined its previous animation.

“See you inside,” Deadpool replies, his tone measured and his movements fluid as he exits Roscoe.

“Wait,” Stiles calls as the passenger door falls shut, “you don’t know what room!”

Deadpool ducks behind a truck and Stiles loses track of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scrolling through some of the comments you guys left on the previous chapters gave me the energy to finish this one.  
> So thanks. (///_-)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been chomping on this story for ages.  
> More to come, motivation, energy, and time pending.


End file.
